So Slips Our Sanity
by feeltheRUSH
Summary: Fragments of memory are all they have left. That and their wits. They've been taken, scattered through an crumbling castle, where an ancient evil stirs just beyond their sights. Rated for toture, gore, and disturbing imagery.
1. Chapter 1

_Inspired by latenight marathons of Amnesia: The Dark Descent gamepay and the pure awesome that is young justice RPG dot com, Rush decided to write a fic about it. I feel much more motivated to write about this fic, and I'm hoping it'll get a lot more loving attention and updates. A little hesitant posting this since, Rush has never ever written a horror fic or in the present tense, so if you guys wanna be amazing and point out any grammatical errors, that'd be totally turbing._

_Young Justice needs updating because it's being neglected by the fine people at CN._

_Please, keep your wits about you, and be on the look out for tinduhboxes._

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><p><strong>So Slips Our Sanity<strong>

He is trained for this.

Deep breath in.

The lonely candle, dripping atop a wooden crate, casts a sickly glow on the scene. His assaliant is back-lit, face concealed by shadow. The hilt of long, jagged knife is pressed into his assaliant's hand. He can see the glint of a rusted blade. But he can't focus on that. It's better not to think about what's coming. Otherwise the panic, the fear, will consume him. And he is trained for this.

Dreep breath out.

His assaliant- male, judging by his hulking frame and big hands- breaths into his face. It smells hot and stale. A bit spitefully, he thinks his assaliant could use a tic-tac, otherwise, his assaliant doesn't need the knife; his breath is more than a sufficient means of torture. His sarcastic musings do not distract his focus, and he remains limp in his chains, head drooping down so his chin touched his chest. Behind his mask, his eyes- concealed by two lenses of white- are half-lidded, uncaring and dull. His enire body sags agains the iron bonds on his wrists and ankles. If he tenses, it will only hurt worse. He wishes it would start already, because if he was going to be truthful... the wait, the anticipation for his skin to rip and his blood to spill... it was worse than the actual punishment. No. No fear. He is trained for this.

Deep breath in.

Already, his ribs are bruised; while it would've been nice to remember how that came about, he doesn't fret over the how and why, intent on how best to respond to his situations. Along with his aching abdomen, his wrists are raw from the manacles, skin rubbed red and slightly bloody. Oddly, he can't help but feel that he is lucky. Compared to who or what? He can't say. It's all fuzzy as he tries to reach back into his memory. Beneath his lifeless facade, it frustrates him. He feels that normally, he has an excellent memory. But again, he can't say why. All he knows? He was trained for this.

Deep breath out.

He is getting nervous. His fear is getting harder to control as the blade has yet to make contact with his skin. Nor has a hand made contact with him. Still, he hangs limp. He hears three footsteps. Then a boot, scuffed with a mix of dried mud and muck comes into view on the stone floor beneath him. He can hear his assaliant's breathing. Nearly as even as his own. Unconsiously, his forefinger twitches. Then he is still again.

Deep breath in.

His fear, it was rising in his throat. He stubbornly refuses to give in to it. It is almost a relief when the blade finally enters his vision, to impress gently against his chest. It has enough pressure behind it for him to feel the cool metal through his tunic, but not enough to rip the kevlar weave. He does not allow himself to tense or shiver. His small body hangs weakly against it, pulse quickening slightly. Quietly, he licks his lips, tasting the dryness of his mouth. Just do it, he thought.

Deep, shaky breah out.

As soon as he exhales, the blade shreds through his skin. He intakes sharply, already bleeding, the warmth seeping down into his shirt. But besides that, he makes no noise. He objectifies himself, recoiling from his body. A medatative trick his mentor taught him. His mentor. In his distatched state, he thinks clearly, ignoring the steel biting into his flesh, drawing lines of red across his pale skin. His mentor. Dark. Caped. Caped Crusader. Batman! ...That means he...he is Robin? The information suddenly floods his brain. Robin. Boy Wonder. Civilain ID: Richard John Grayson. Son of John and Mary Grayson. Adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne. Father. A rush of desperate desire tears through him, clawing his throat. Batman would know what to do. He would save him. A thought brushes his mind: Did the pain bring back memories?

Shallow breath in.

Robin ignores the blood flowing down his sides. As long as he keeps his heart rate slow... he would be fine. He would be fine. Heart rate slow, think of a plan. His utility belt is not cinched around his waist. His gloves and his boots are gone, leaving his hands and feet bare. Though his fingers relax vaguely brushing around the manacles encircling his wrists, his toes curl, the only sign that he is in pain.

Shuddering breath out.

He is aware he is alone again. Somehow, he must have missed his assailant leaving, perhaps bored of his lack of response. His head swims, unable to remember how long he had been alone, or even when the carvings into his skin had ceased; the gap made the boy nervous. Had he blacked out? Robin had a clear view of the crisscrossing gashes of raw red and ripped cloth, the leftovers of his costume. He sighs, the breath causing his aching chest to expand, igniting another throbbing burst of pain throughout his ribcage. Everything is still fuzzy, but he'll figure a way to escape. All he needed was a little bit of luck. His toes splay out, stretching to graze the cell floor, searching. The chink of chains sound explosively loud in the oppressive silence, making Robin grit his teeth. For the first time, he tastes blood, but like the rest of it, he ignores the metallic ooze coating his teeth. His toes brush against a forgotten scrap of iron.

Uneven breath in.

Focusing, he grabs the iron between his toes, then, aware he has one shot, flicks it upward. The candlelight is his saving grace, allowing him to track its progress through the air. His aim is true, and he snatches the metal scrap in his hand, running his fingers over its jagged edge, breath coming in quick gasps. He has his means of escape. His training- from Batman, he reminds himself, fiercely clinging to his identity- enables him to use such a useless piece of metal and turn it into the means of his escape. Quelling the protest from his raw right wrist, Robin picks the lock, with slow, dilberateness. Inside, he was panicking, frantic to be freed, but that irrational (well... it was actually very rational at this point) fear would more likely than not cause a mistake. And with his chest a bleeding mess, mistakes could _potentially_ endanger his life. Robin optimistically believes his wounds are more superficial than harmful, but reserves judgement. Once he gained his bearings, patching himself up is on his list of things to do.

Hacking cough out, to clear the phlegm.

Robin's right hand is first, his entire body dangling forward by his left arm, the manacale cutting into his already raw wrist. He winces but gives a shaky sigh of relief. Curling sideways, he reaches up, carefully jiggling the makeshift lockpick in the manacle. With a crisp, blessed _click_ the manacle opens. His body falls forward, gracelessly, landing on his elbows and knees, teeth gritting as the impact jars him. The floor is hard stone, leaving bruises to purple beneath his skin. His head raises, scanning the room, tongue running over his teeth, again tasting blood.

Stuttering intake.

The cell is small, square. That lone candle shows him the door, and he crawls to it, unwilling to trust his legs just yet. It's a thick wooden door. And if his cell isn't enough to remind him of an old European castle, this door, with its wrought iron handle and wooden construction definitely is. His breath spawns tiny clouds of white fog. And suddenly he is aware. He is cold. Very cold. Chill settling in beneath his tattered clothing. His eyes narrow scrutinizingly beneath his mask. Then he grips the iron handle, a circle with deadbolted latch, and pulls himself to his bare feet. He rattles the handle, hoping that somehow it'll open just like that. Then, knowing it won't, because realistically who would leave a prisoner in an unlocked cell, he turns, leaning against the door, eyes probing the cell around him.

Irregular exhale.

There's a pot of something tucked beside the crate. At first, his gaze moves over the pot, missing it because of the shadows cast by the candlelight. Unsteadily, he bends down to take it in his hands, bringing it up beneath his nose. An experimental sniff tells him all he needs to know. Oil. Robin dips his fingers into the pot, then with this callused fingers sufficiently coated, he brushes them in a circle around the door's handle, swirling his fingers through the oil as needed. Once he is finished he grabs the candle, accidentally spilling searing wax over his knuckles. He sucks in a breath, but carries the candle steadily to the door none the less. Robin smirks at the door. It is a tiny smirk, blood smearing the edge of his lips. Then, he tosses the flame at the door. Immediately the oil catches, sickly yellow fire eating up the door's woodwork. Smoke begins to pour from the flames as the door weakened. Well, Robin thinks neutrally, I don't feel so cold anymore.

Exhilirated intake.

As smoke fills the ajoining corridor, a figure, silent as a shadow, creeps out of the black cloud. Robin is free, bare feet padding softly against the cold stones. Now, all he needs to do was escape. But, he reminds himself, forcing down the fear and confusion, when one was trained by Batman, how hard could it be? An indistinct smirk, a slight show of confidence and defiance, lights on his stained lips. The boy doesn't look back as he disappears into the gloom, listening to the quickened beat of his heart.

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><p><em>I think, despite Robin being the physically weakest of the team, he's got mental fortitude that'd make Batman proud. Hence why there was no whimpering or broken Robins running around in this chapter. But never fear, there's plenty of time for several meltdowns later on. I loves me some angst.<em>

_Reviews are adored and mounted on my wall. HEE._

_Next up, we'll get to see why Robin was one of the lucky ones..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Amnesia liiiiives! It liiiives!... wish I could say the same for my own sanity. This week is hectic in the extreme, I've been trying to write some stinking essay for English. Who the hell gives out summer homework. Four out of my six teachers next year, that's who. Eff, my poor summer._

_TARGETS WAS SO AMAZING. Kaldur and Roy make such a BAMF team-up. Lol, Cheshire and Roy though. It made my friend almost die. Mmm that boy._

_Oh baby, this chapter has some bad language and disturbing imagery._

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><p><strong>So Slips Our Sanity<strong>

Cold chokes her. Not real hands, not something physical. A mental chill wound around her throat and constricts her breathing.

_You kill people. Killer. Murder._

Dark red stains her hand, won't come off! It can't come off no matter how hard she wrings her hands, it seeps between her long slender fingers, it climbs up her arms; a fluid swarm, defying gravity to wrap up her arms. Her lips part, a scream forcing its way up her throat. A small voice cries out to her, gradually morphing and deepening to a voice of consuming depth, the force vibrating in her ribcage.

_You promised to save me! Why didn't you SAVEME? **BITCH.**_

She screams now. High and taut like a bowstring. The blood is not blood. It's thickened into a bubbling mass that stretches over her open mouth, cutting off her desperate wailing with a thin, pulsating membrane. It begins to press into her eyes. Those crystal blue eyes that were once her pride are going to be squished, bloodied pulps now. Her sob comes quietly, she accepts the names the voices call her.

_Harlot. Deciever! **BITCH.**_

In her mind's eye, she pictures herself, encased with red ooze, the bubbling, sickening hot mass. It reminds her of an oily scab, the same dark crimson and bubbly, veined texture. She thrashes, trying to break free, but the sinewy flesh refused to snap, it kept her arms strapped at her sides. Her head jerked wildly upward, eyes flying open like shutters that had been drawn. Even in the dark, her crystal blue eyes flashed brightly.

She is alone. In the dull light, she can barely make out her hands in front of her face. But definitely- thankfully- do not have anything on them. Except a bit of grime. That is the least of her worries though. There is a gap. A wide yawning chasm in her brain. It should have been filled with identity. With memories of self. Of a name. But all that is left is a deep fissure that splits her down the middle. There's a vague feeling of who she should be, and a dark pull of who she _could_ be. The distinction is slight, semi interchangable and it frightens her. She feels like, before this- whatever this is- she had her identity sorted out. Now, she feels naked and bare without it and scared of what she could do.

There's no lamp or candle nearby. She can only see what is just in front of her. Both her hands trembled uncontrollably as they sweep across the floor. Then they meet something that isn't the stone floor. Dry. Knobby and smooth. Cylindrical between the knobby parts. Lifting it cautiously, she brings it close to her face, frowning slightly.

It was a bone.

Gnarled.

Rotting.

_Gnawed._

She shrieks, dropping it, scrambling away, stumbling to her feet, tripping over some more... things. (_OhGod,notmorebonesitisITIS_) But she's not fast enough. Not to escape the sickly sweet stench of decaying flesh and to see the skeletons- once whole bodies- arranged in awkward poses, reaching for something, searching desperately for escape.

Whispers follow her as she crashes her way through the corridors.

_Liar._

Deciever.

**Murderer.**

_**Bitch.**_

Shaking head to foot, she sprints all for everything she's worth. She sees a light. The light. She needs it. She needs sunshine. She needs... _yellow_ sunshine. She craves it, a painful ache piercing her chest confirming the fact.

Her foot catches, and her mind explodes, filling her senses with the poignant smell of wilting muscle and withering skin. As she skids across the floor, she coughs violently, raising her arm instinctively to hack into her elbow. The touch of light- a flickering light, so it must be fire- allows her to see color. Her arm is covered in blue cloth, except where she coughed. There... there is a sprinkling of dark red. After experimentally wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she finds a red smear on her lightly tanned skin. Either a split lip or her coughing fit is tearing her apart internally. She sniffs, hating herself for how weak and scared she sounds.

Again, that low smell of decay and rot fills her nose. Looking up from her hand, she looks around. A horrible face, hollowed out, jaw hanging on dried sinew leers at her.

Inches.

Away.

Her breath becomes shallow, but she cannot move. The face has no eyes. It's just a skull now, she says silently. No reason to fear.

There's a light _tap_ on her shoulder. A new weight touching her. Slowly, forcibly keeping her breathing shallow (_because I didn't want smell the decay and the rot and oh god it smells so bad_), she turns her head, a strand of blonde hair falling into her eyes. They widen in horror as they catch sight. Sight of a dead arm, thin, spindly fingers relaxing on her shoulder. Like this was a drive in movie and the corpse was her boyfriend and trying to get coozy, but it _wasn't. It was a dead **corpse.**_

_Liar._

Deciever.

**Murderer.**

_**Bitch.**_

The whispers swarmed her as she squawks, whirling away from it, scrambling for the light, letting out a dry sob because it _touched _her and the smell of the decay and the rot would follow her. Her footsteps slap the stones of the floor as she tumbles, tumbling in on her knees into the bright circle of light cast by the lit torch. She presses herself against the wall, chest heaving in big, unchecked gasps. Glacing down at her shirt, she sees a stylized 'S' shield. That spikes something deep in her mind, something out of reach. But then she hears a slight noise. A tiny clearing of the throat. It wasn't threatening, not like the whispers. They hushed as soon as that tiny clearing of the throat sounded in the silence. She looks up, expecting death and more decay. Sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks.

But there's just a small boy. He's small compared to her. Skinny too. A mask covers his eyes, corneres tilted upward. There's an 'R' on his lefthand side of his shirt- or was it her left? She shakes her head. But it is more to avoid staring at his torso. It is wrapped tightly in a swath of rippped strips of cloth. What was once dirty sheets, it looks like. A few dots of red tell her that he may need to change the bandaging soon, but he stands tall. Confident. Unlike her, who still cowers away from him, yet refuses to leave her circle of light.

"Supette," he says, some of that confidence melting away, replaced by uncertainty. He speaks lowly, whisperingly, afraid to wake something up probably. The name falls on her ears without stirring any recognition. She tilts her head at him. So far, he has not made any move to harm her. She hopes, fragily, optimistically, that he is here to help. Despite his smallness, he is self-assured. Again he speaks, taking a cautious step forward. "Supergirl. Kara?"

She gazes at him with wide, frightened eyes.

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><p><em>Okay, yeah, Supergirl isn't actually/ in the Young Justice Cartoon. But the fact that Superboy is a clone and has no demons in his past [no, Superman being timid about their relationship doesn't count as a demon, not in my head] complicates my purposes, so I subbed in Supergirl for this fic. Ohbaby. Obviously something's wrong with her too, not just mentally either. (snickersnort)_

_Next, we finally get to look into Artemis' feelings on the situation._


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